


New Delhi - Two Years, Six Months

by SherlockMalfoy



Series: Sherlock!Wizardverse Drabbles - General [4]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Magic, Post Reichenbach, Reichenfeels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-17
Updated: 2012-08-17
Packaged: 2017-11-12 07:52:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/488481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SherlockMalfoy/pseuds/SherlockMalfoy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been 2 years and 6 months since The Fall. Sherlock seeks information from an old acquaintance who owes him a life debt. Information that could lead to the end of his life as a dead man.</p>
            </blockquote>





	New Delhi - Two Years, Six Months

She was sitting at a table, shielded from the midday sun by the all too cheerful umbrella mounted to the center of the table. Pale blue-green eyes were hidden behind a pair of large sunglasses. Her golden tresses pulled up into a neat bun.  
      ”You haven’t changed your shade of lipstick.”  
      Bright red lips, red as sin, pulled into a wicked smile. “I was wondering how long it would take you to find me again.”  
      ”You didn’t make it easy.” The rich baratone came from the table behind her. But she never looked up from the book in her hand.  
      ”You’re a long way from England, Mr. Holmes.”  
      ”I hear New Delhi is nice this time of year.”  
      Now she turned, just enough to see the only man who had ever bested her. She’d expected the same pale, dark haired, refined creature who’s brilliant mind made her wild with irrational passion. Instead she saw a green eyed, red haired, bronze skinned man enjoying a cool drink in the New Delhi heat. His fine tailored suit exchanged for a hipster t-shirt and skinny jeans. “Are those… trainers?” she asked in disbelief mixed with disgust.  
      He was leaning back in his seat, holding his quickly melting drink in one hand and a cellphone in the other. “When one is dead, one does not generally continue looking like oneself. After all, you Miss Adler have come a long way from leather and lace.” He gave the faintest hint of a smile. “Really now… blue gingham?”  
      She scoffed, but he merely shrugged. “It’s Mrs. Burkhart now, if you’re interrested.”  
      ”Oh, I know. You’ve found yourself a lovely young woman who works at…” He consulted his phone. “Ah, Sky News Australia. Enjoying your honeymoon with Mr. Burkhart while Lydia is back home giving the weather forcast. Pity you couldn’t convince her to join you.”  
      He slipped his phone into the top of his pocket and drank from his drink again. She watched him closely. All long limbs and ill posture. Nothing like the man she had come to admire and, in her own twisted way, love. Nothing save that penetrating stare and the brilliant mind hiding behind it.  
      Even as cut off as she was from her old life, from Moriarty’s underground, she had heard of The Fall. The final clash between the finest minds of the century. She also knew why he was alone. Everyone knew… She never let her mask falter, deciding to drive that knife in deeper. It was only fair. “I see John couldn’t make it as well.”  
      There it was. The anger she’d been expecting. The anger she’d only heard chinese whispers about at the far edges of the criminal underworld.  
      ”How long has it been?” she asked offhandedly, though she knew the answer to that as well. “A year? Two?”  
      He set down his drink, half empty, she noticed. He didn’t answer her question. Instead, he offered her an explanation… a demand. “Sebastian Moran.”  
      She closed her book and laid it in her lap. “I’m sorry, but I’ve got no idea whom-” Her words were cut off as he leaned back in his chair, one arm draping over the chair while his other hand, the drink hand, gave only the slightest of gestures.  
      Her book sailed the short distance to his table, where he opened it to have a look boredly at the contents. “ _Nights in Roadanthe_. You really are becoming a muggle, aren’t you?”  
      Irene glared at him as he closed the book and set it aside.  
      ”Sebastian Moran,” he repeated. “Or must I inform your new husband he’s married a siren?” A red brow raised as he observed **The Woman** while she considered her options.  
      ”When did you notice?”  
      ”When you failed to ensnare my attentions.” Boredly, he sighed and looked around. “And John’s.”  
      ”I don’t know… He did seem rather distracted…”  
      ”Confused, yes. Unknowingly jealous, yes. Distracted?” He actually gave a soft chuckle. “No. He was actually paying _very_ close attention. Just… not to you. He did ask for you to put on a napkin, after all.”  
      She smiled. “I assumed embarassment.”  
      He nodded, reaching for his drink. “He would say the same. He would be wrong, of course. He often is.” A sip. A grimmace. The ice had melted away, leaving a watery, weak mess in its wake. “One more time, or I may find the need to get… creative.”  
      ”Oooo, I think I like the sound of that,” Irene remarked.  
      He cut his angry eyes to her again, and for a moment The Woman could swear she could feel her blood run cold. Could feel a cold rush of wind through the busy streets and yet… the air was hot and unbearably humid. There was no wind. Only herself and the dead detective who now lay something silver on his table beside the book he had taken from her.  
      It was long, and the little streaks of sunlight that managed to get past the umbrellas bounced off it. Though she could see past the glare thanks to her sunglasses. She hadn’t noticed the breath she had been holding until she felt it finally escape her lips. The silver was only detail work. The rest… the rest was clearly wood. It was a wand. Now some of the rumours, the whispers she had heard made sense. The bizzare ways in which some of Moriarty’s other soldiers and clients had dissapeared.  
      ”Sebastian Moran,” he stated calmly. “And your life debt to me is cleared.”  
      Now that… That was a much more enticing offer. “One condition,” she said, not willing to completely do this out of the goodness of her heart. She needed to know. She needed to understand why all of her attempts to steal his attentions, to flirt, to seduce him before had ultimately failed. Even his brother, Mycroft, had given her a once over and a look of consideration before casting his attentions elsewhere.  
      He only gave a hum, but did not decline her request. Instead, he looked towards the busy street beside them, watching, no, observing the people going about their lives. None the wiser.  
      She wanted to know how he’d done it. Why he’d not given in when others had. And now… Why he was after Moriarty’s right hand when there were far bigger, far more deadly fish in the criminal sea for him to worry about.  
      But instead when she opened her mouth she asked, “You’re him, aren’t you?”  
      He did not answer. But he looked at her from the corner of his eyes. She could tell now the green were contacts. Not a glamour as she had suspected. All that magic… and he still used the muggle ways of hiding. As she did. Sherlock’s silence, she realized, was his answer. No confirmation, yet no denial.  
      Finally, Irene put her sunglasses back on. “I don’t know where he is now. I’m surviving on the fringe since that stunt in Karachi. He’s been underground since The Fall.”  
      ”Is that what they’re calling it?” He was disinterested.  
      ”Sh-“  
      ”I’m afraid you’ll find it’s _Benedict_ now, Mrs. Burkhart. After all,” he said, his voice thick with sarcasm and venom. _“Sherlock Holmes is dead.”_  
      She stood from her table and retrived her book. A phone number. A few scrambled words were scribbled onto the title page. “A good book is no match for good company,” she said, giving the book back with a wan smile. “Give us a call if you’re lonely.”  
      He waited until she’d left his sight before opening the book again. There… There was the information he needed. Her handwriting was elegent and jumbled. But the message was clear. “All debts paid,” he said to himself. Ripping the page from the text, he stood and folded it neatly. It was slipped into his back pocket, his wand placed back into his waistband as he left the streetside tables.  
      This time in six months, Sherlock knew, he’d be back in London. Back from this wretched misery and back in his flat.  
      Back to hot tea, crap telly, intriguing cases…  
      And, he hoped against all hope because that’s all the broken man had left, back to his blogger.

**Author's Note:**

> Irene, like Sherlock, grew up in the wizarding world. But she was born after he left it, so she never knew that Sherlock was the missing heir of the House of Black.
> 
> Irene, like Sherlock, is a "creature". She is a Siren. He is a Nymph.


End file.
